Blind Spot
by ArtisticRainey
Summary: John and Virgil do some unexpected bonding. Rated T for swearing.
1. John

Everything else had gone to plan. It was supposed to go to plan, wasn't it? _Everything Brains designs is over-engineered. Safety in excellence, remember?_

We weren't even pushing the limits this time around. It was just routine. Or at least, so I thought. Brains and Alan had docked with Five to refresh my supplies and refit one of the modules in the memory core. All routine. It was all going to plan.

Brains was tinkering at an open panel and the more he pulled at the guts of Five, the more I started to sweat. He wasn't doing anything _wrong_ , of course. It just made me nervous to think that something _could_ go wrong. It brought back bad memories of the incident with EOS, when I had been 99.9% certain I would have to destroy my 'Bird.

My _home_.

Thankfully it hadn't come to that, and now I didn't just have my baby back, but I had someone to share it with, too. EOS was more than a computer program or an AI. She was…my friend.

For safety, she had isolated herself in the Space Elevator just in case there was a problem with the core refit.

"I wouldn't want to be accidently deleted, John!" she had joked, sounding her trademark giggle. "I don't think you could cope without me anymore!"

I had smiled at that.

"I wouldn't want that either, EOS."

And I meant it. She was part of my family now. I know I come across as stand-offish and serious, and I don't get jokes and 52.4 hours is the maximum amount of time I can stand to spend with them, but… I would do anything for my family. Even die for them – and that includes Brains and Kayo, too. They are as much family to me as Scott or Virg, Squid Boy or Mini Me.

Thus.

When Brains had removed part of the circuitry and Alan was babbling about Newton's Second Law, I raised a hand. I could hear something. A dull whine. A something that was not supposed to be there. Within a nanosecond, I knew what it was. I had heard the sound before, back when Brains and I were still designing Five.

That sound was a harbinger of danger. Of death.

"Brains, look out!"

Before the engineer had a chance to speak, I had shoved Alan backwards and flung myself forwards. My hands collided with Brains' shoulder and arm, rocketing the slight man out of the way, just as I caught the brunt of the explosion. Full in the face.

 **~oOo~**

Traumatic brain injury, dead centre of the back of the head. Damage to the occipital lobe. X-ray. MRI. CT. I heard all of this information loud and clear. But I didn't need to in order to understand what had happened.

I had gone _blind_.

It wasn't permanent. The GDF doctors said it would heal, just like the skull fracture and the broken eye socket and arm – and the many ribs – not to mention the extensive bruising that was turning my skin black and blue – not that I could see it. I just had to give it time. My snort of derision was delightfully inelegant. Time wasn't a problem. It was how to pass that time that was difficult.

For the first week, I hadn't even been able to stand up. The usual dizziness that accompanied my return from space was intensified by a factor of infinity due to sight loss. The first time I fell, Virgil had been there to catch me. At first, Virg had tried to enable my space-dork, blind-guy hobble but clearly I was not going fast enough for him. So, in the most embarrassing of moments since Lou-Beth Gwyn shoved mac and cheese down the front of my pants in eighth grade – to this day, I still don't get how that was flirting – Virgil actually _lifted me_ and _carried me_ to my bed.

 _Oy_.

After that, I didn't need a fully operational occipital lobe to know that my brother had become an ever-present, flannel-clad guardian.

It was so _annoying_.

Don't get me wrong, I like Virgil. He's a sort of manly Picasso with a heart of gold. But boy, do we ever butt heads – and not just physically, what with my inability to see. That lump was a doozy. His skull must be made of granite.

Anyway, I digress.

Virgil and I do not always see eye to eye – pun not intended. I call it like I see it – _damn it_. I did it again. Anyway. My philosophy in life is that while you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, you also encourage those flies – _id est_ , Squid Boy and Mini Me – to do stupid things. When they came to me, aged stupid and stupider, and asked if they thought jumping off the roof onto a trampoline would be a good way to get into the pool, I told them exactly what I thought.

"That is, without a doubt, the _stupidest_ thing I have ever heard. Consider yourselves banned from the trampoline."

Alright, so Squiddy looked like he was going to blow his top and Mini Me started to cry, but it was still a valid and accurate point.

Virgil, on the other hand, would have got out the pom-poms and started cheerleading.

"You can do it, guys! Go team!"

No. Just no.

Grandma calls Virg the peacemaker of our family and of _course_ she would. Since we were kids, he's always been her precious little cinnamon roll, all liquid amber eyes and unreasonable piano skills and _did he really have to be the artistic one as well?_

Peacemaker, my ass. More like sass-master.

"Don't underestimate them. Don't judge Alan just because he's the youngest. Don't do this. Don't do that. I'm Virgil and I'm so perfect…"

Pfft. Whatever. To return to the point, Virg and I might be the closest of everyone in terms of age but that doesn't mean we're _close_. Chalk and cheese. Light and dark. A gourmet meal and Grandma's cooking. We are total opposites. So, having him as an omnipresent custodian in a lumberjack costume was a strange experience.

The worst part about it was that he was so _nice_. Seriously nice. And there I was, thinking he didn't even like me.

"You okay there, Jay?"

Startled from my thoughts, I jumped a mile in the air and yelped. And there he was, hands on my shoulders and breath on my face, haloed by the aroma of a cologne that made him smell like a mountain lodge – and the manly custodian of ovaries that he is – using a nickname that I hadn't heard in years.

"Jay, seriously, you okay, buddy?"

Maybe it was the disorientation. Maybe it was the shock of hearing a resurrected pet name.

It was probably the Tramadol.

Whatever it was, however, I blame it entirely for the next six words that blurted out of my big fat _stupid_ mouth.

"Why don't you like me, Virg?"

I could hear his stunned expression. My blind eyes whirled in their broken sockets. The leather of his boots crinkled as he sat back on his haunches. _Shit, shit, shit. Why the hell did I say that? Dumb!_

That was not the last, nor least, of the dumbassery of the evening.

Picture this (you'll have to use your imagination because I couldn't see it): stunned lumberjack sitting on the floor. Idiot space-dork blind guy panicking on the bed. Idiot space-dork blind guy then jumps to his feet and tries to run away.

May I reiterate? I was _blind_.

Stunned lumberjack falls back on his ass (I assume that's what happened, anyway) as idiot space-dork blind guy leaps to his feet and runs – face-first into a dresser. Which then _falls on him_.

Did I mention before that I had a skull fracture, a broken eye socket, broken arm and many broken ribs? Just checking.

" _SHIT_!"

That was the sound of the black-haired lumberjack. A usually unflappable creature, calm in the face of danger, it was brought to a state of alarm when its change, the rare ginger space fool, was in danger of extinction. Seriously, I thought I was going to die. How tragic, to be crushed to death under a dresser when I had survived 25G.

"John, what the _hell_?"

He was in the dark about my reaction; I was in the dark for real. It was so terrifying, to be squished like a bug and have no idea what was happening. Was it a dresser? Was it an elephant? How would I know? Well, obviously I _did_ know it was a dresser because I don't keep my socks and boxers in an elephant's ass but _you get the point_.

Within a few seconds the burden was lifted and then Virgil's hands were all over me – steady, ladies; not like that – checking to see how much damage I had done to my already blinded, crippled body.

"What the hell was that all about?" he asked as he checked to see how many pieces my ribcage was in.

He deserved a reasonable explanation. After all, I had just behaved in a completely irrational manner. So of course, I planned to give him such an explanation.

And then.

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings."

Oh, dear. That was not what I had meant to say at all. That was from _Julius Caesar_ , Shakespeare's words, not mine. And certainly not what I had _meant_ to say.

I couldn't see it but I could sense Virgil's brows drawing together. I could _hear_ his confusion.

Well, that wasn't too difficult, really, since the next thing he said was, "I'm really confused."

Satisfied that I was not more broken now than I had been before, Virgil plucked me up like a delicate little flower (vomit) and deposited me back on the bed again. He sat down. I _heard_ him cross his arms. Without words, he was saying, "Spill it, brother."

You know when you're a kid, you think that when you close your eyes, no one else can see you? There's a curiously similar sensation when you're blind. I lay on the bed, a limp noodle of despair, hoping and praying that – I don't know – he'd suddenly sense that a forest needed clearing and he would make like a tree – and leaf.

Yeah, I didn't laugh. Virg wasn't laughing either.

"I'm waiting, Jay," he said.

Goddamnit.

"I don't know, Virg," was all I could muster.

"Bullshit."

Ah, straight to the point, as always.

I heard him lean forward. His boots scuffed the wooden floor. My bedsheets ruffled as I shifted – more like squirmed. I couldn't see it, but that didn't mean I couldn't _feel_ his expectant gaze.

"Okay," he said. "If you're not going to talk, _I'm_ going to talk."

Whew, off the hook.

"I am seriously worried about you, Jay."

Fuck. Not off the hook, then.

"What do you mean, why don't I like you? Of course I like you! You're my brother, for Christ's sake. Where did that even come from?" I could hear the sudden interjection of a smile into his voice. "I thought that blow to the head would have knocked some sense _into_ you, not more out of you. And what the hell was that about, running away like I'm some kind of monster?" The smile was gone again. "You could have hurt yourself even more – and you're already plenty hurt, John! Did you hit your head again? Because you don't normally quote Shakespeare at me and I am really, _really_ concerned for you."

For the first time, I was glad I had lost my sight. I don't think I could have coped with the look on his face, all puppy-dog eyes and such extreme earnestness that he could make even a man ovulate. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out – not even Shakespeare – and then, the worst thing that could have happened, happened.

Worse than mac and cheese down the pants. Worse than being scooped up into your brother's arms like some kind of freakish damsel in distress. Worse even than randomly quoting Shakespeare.

I started to _cry_.

Totally the Tramadol. Definitely the Tramadol.

"Oh, Jay..."

Virgil's voice was unbearably gentle and I have no idea how I ended up cradled in his arms like a fucking dead kitten or a stuffed penguin or something but it happened and in that moment, it was exactly what I needed.

I didn't think much in that time. I just existed, head buried in my brother's shoulder, a little of the weight I didn't even realise I had been carrying being taken from me.

After all that, what I needed was a handkerchief because there was snot all over my face and, made of flannel or not, Virgil's shirt was not the appropriate place to wipe it. A tissue was pressed into my palm and I blew my snout clean and had to hold the slimy remains in my hand because if I didn't know where the dresser was, I sure as hell didn't know where the garbage can was – even though I knew I should probably throw myself into it, too.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "I feel like trash."

"You are trash, Jay," Virgil said. "Space trash."

I snorted.

"Lumberjack."

"Bagel muncher."

"See?" I joked, though it wasn't really a joke. "I knew you didn't like me."

The atmosphere was immediately soured. _Stupid_.

"What's that all about, Jay?" Virgil asked, all hand on my shoulder and reeking of kindness. "What on Earth – or above it – would make you think that?"

I shrugged and fiddled with the sling my right arm was captured in.

"Seriously, spill it," Virgil said, his voice commanding.

What the hell? I had already made a complete fool of myself, so why not go the whole hog? Who cared?

"It just seems like…" I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. "We don't really have anything in common. We're very different. We always have been. I'm track and you're field. I'm black and you're white. I'm ballet and you're… Demolition derby!"

When Virgil laughed, he sent a puff of hot air onto my cheek.

"Just because we're different, doesn't mean I don't like you."

"Yeah, I know," I said. My sneakers squeaked on the hardwood. "But it just seems like… Well, you shoot me down all the time. You sort of tell me off a lot and…" I sighed and hung my head. "I'm sorry. I'm being stupid."

"No, you're not," Virgil said, squeezing my shoulder. "I guess I do 'tell you off' a lot, but that's because, well… I hate to break it to you, Jay, but you're a fatalist. You always think the absolute worst. Sometimes it seems like you have no faith in us. Like when Alan was in trouble on the asteroid mine rescue. You _voluntarily came down from space_. You seriously thought he wasn't going to make it. But I knew he would do it. It just… I guess it bothers me sometimes because it feels like you don't trust us. And maybe that comes across in the way I speak to you."

My face snapped towards him, which was a futile gesture because my sightless eyes were useless. But I could imagine the anguish on his face and it made me want to cry a bit again (though I didn't – manly man things and all that).

"It's not that at all," I said, my words catching in my throat. "I do trust you. I trust you all. I've do anything for you. But I suppose…"

 _Alert, alert! Truth coming through!_

"I'm so scared that the day will come when I'll send one of you guys out to a rescue and you won't come back. And I… I'm not sure if I can cope with that. We lost Mom and Grandpa Grant. We have no idea where Dad is. And… It _hurts_ , Virg. It really does. More than any injury ever could."

In that moment, I truly understood. It all became crystal clear. I didn't feel like crying anymore. I just felt the burn of shame. And once the truth was out, it kept on coming.

"I've spirited myself away to Five because I don't know what else to do," I said. "I'm afraid that one day, I'll lose someone else and it'll be the end of me." I reached out, my hands searching for Virgil's face. I pressed my palm to his cheek, feeling the stubble, hearing the soft scratch of the hairs on my skin. "It's easier to be a space trash, bagel munching robot that only focuses on the job than it is to be…" I trailed off.

"Vulnerable?" Virgil offered.

"Yeah," I replied, removing my hand from his face and feeling for his shoulder. The muscles were hard under my fingertips, even through the thick material of his shirt. "'The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings,'" I said again. "I feel like my fault is that I do see myself as an underling. That I can't cope as well with everything as the rest of you can. I just scurry off and hide in my 'Bird and _I really wish I would stop talking now_."

"Don't," Virgil said. "You clearly need to." The smile was back in his voice. "I just wish it didn't take an explosion, being blinded by a head injury, a skull fracture, a broken eye socket, broken arm, broken ribs, bruises over, like, 98% of your body, high doses of painkillers and a _falling dresser_ to make you _open your mouth_."

I shrugged.

"I am not good with words."

"And yet you quote Shakespeare."

"Not my words."

"True."

I looked down – not that I could see anything – and swallowed.

"I'm sorry, Virg," I said. "I'm sorry I got everything so wrong."

I heard him reach for my hair before I felt the ruffle. I hoped that my expression was suitably grumpy.

"Don't worry," he said. "I understand."

And he did. That lumberjack Picasso with a heart of gold, that mountain lodge-smelling, ovary-melting, peace-making, precious cinnamon roll, polar opposite of mine really did understand.

"I love you, Jay," he said.

Oh my _god_.

"Love you too," I replied.

And we hugged again. And it was all very sweet and disgusting and brotherly and I felt a bit like I was going to barf.

Yet at the same time, I did feel a warmth in my heart that I hadn't even noticed had been missing. It disappeared when Dad disappeared. For a moment, I couldn't quite make out what it was – and this time, my lack of perception was nothing to do with my lack of sight. Now, Virg had rekindled it.

Trust. The feeling was _trust_.


	2. Virgil

I kept my hand under the shower head until the water was cool enough. When I was satisfied that he wasn't going to be scalded, I turned around to see my temporarily blinded brother struggling to bind the waterproof wrapping around his arm cast.

"Give it to me," I said.

John hesitated for a moment, his emotions playing over his face. I don't know why it happened but after he was blinded, he lost the ability to regulate his expressions. When he didn't like something, instead of looking impassive, he now looked like he had swallowed a wasp. Right now, irritation and frustration were locked in an epic battle. After a moment, he sighed and held the wrapping out. I took it from him and smiled.

But then I stopped because, for the first time, I took in the gravity of my brother's injuries as he stood awkwardly, naked apart from his boxers and his arm cast. From head to toe, John was peppered with a rainbow of bruises. And those _ribs_. I stopped myself from hissing because it would have made him feel even more uncomfortable. It looked as though his brother had been in a fight with an eighteen-wheeler and had _lost_. And even if he couldn't see it, John could certainly feel it.

As I started to bind the waterproofing around his cast, I took a closer look at John's face. It wasn't as bad as it had been but it was still pretty horrific. The cracked eye socket had come with its own mountain of swellings and cuts and there were smaller injuries from flying debris.

The explosion had been a freak accident, something no one – not even Brains – could have seen or prevented. After being caught full-on in the blast, John had cracked the back of his skull on the bulkhead behind and, well, the rest was history. Occipital lobe damage on top of everything else.

As I tucked the end of the wrap into the edge of the cast, I sighed. Poor Brains was still beating himself up about the whole thing, even though John had explained that _it wasn't his fault_.

"What?" John asked, interrupting my thoughts.

"Nothing," I said. I tapped an uninjured portion of his arm. "You're all done. Do you need a hand getting into the –"

Before I could finish the sentence, John raised a hand.

"No. You have seen me at my worst, but thou shalt not see me naked."

I was going to push the issue because an already fractured skull connecting with a tiled floor would not have ended well. But I didn't. Why? It was simple: the downturn of his lips, his doleful eyes, the expression that screamed, _I need to retain at least a thread of pride_.

So I relented.

"All right. I'll be right outside. Holler if you need me. The towel is right beside the shower."

John blinked a few times, clearly shocked at my quick re;enting, and then nodded.

"Okay."

So I left him to strip off and clean the snot from his hair.

Seriously, there had been _so much snot_. It's probably a good thing that John rarely cries.

I kept the door of his en suite open a crack so I could listen for the sounds of a falling spaceman and walked to the middle of John's bedroom. Or at least, what was supposed to be a bedroom. Alan had his guitar on the wall, Gordon had his Olympic medal in a display case – and both had murals of photographs that threatened to overwhelm the walls. I had my paintings and Scott had his flying certifications and air force commendations. We all had our little touches and personal tastes. What did John have?

A solitary teddy bear with a half an ear missing and a grumpy expression. No, really. It is the grumpiest toy I have ever seen. It's got these tiny button eyes that look like they're always judging you. I suppressed a shudder. Very strange.

Another thing that was strange was what had just happened. I sat down on the bed and plucked up the teddy, holding it in both hands. John had asked me why I didn't like him and that… Well, it truly took the wind out of my sails. And then it made me feel…guilty. Because, looking back, I can see exactly what he means.

John and I are very different people. We're built in different ways, inside and out. I'm dark-haired and he's a red-head. I have brown eyes, he has green. I'm pretty well put together and he's…how can I put this? A noodle – apart from those deltoids. They're huge in comparison to his scrawny little chicken legs and his tiny waist. That boy has a _26 inch waist_. That's a full _ten_ inches smaller than mine – and I'm not pudgy!

Anyway. We're different in terms of appearance but also in personality. I meant what I said when I called him a fatalist. He always heads straight for the worst case scenario. Do not pass 'Go.' Do not collect $200. That's Jay, all right. Whereas _I_ tend to see the positives in life – although I readily admit to displaying my own fatalism when we were dealing with the Luddites in London. But, generally speaking, I tend to look on the bright side. You've got to have faith, right?

John's different. It's like he's always poised for the worst. Like he's steeling himself for the final blow.

And now I know that is _exactly_ what he's doing.

" _I've spirited myself away to Five because I don't know what else to do… I'm afraid that one day, I'll lose someone else and it'll be the end of me_."

When he said that, all the times I shut him down or cut him off came rushing back.

" _Don't underestimate Alan just because he's the youngest. Gordon's more capable than we give him credit for. Scott will make the right choice. I know what I'm doing, John_!"

The more I thought about it, the more incidents started springing up in my mind until a lead weight of guilt had formed in my belly. I looked down at the threadbare teddy again. Its eyes were still judgemental.

"You're quite right, Bear," I said. "I feel awful about it, now."

The bear stared back. Had it been alive, surely it would have nodded its agreement.

The sound of the water cut off and I tossed the toy aside – then thought better if it and replaced it in its correct stance, nestled on top of John's pillow. I walked to the en suite door and knocked, not daring to peep through the crack.

"Everything okay in there?" I asked. No answer. "Jay?"

Still nothing. Last thread pride or not, the silence was scaring me, so I pushed open the door.

The bathroom was steamy and the shower cubicle's glass door was fogged. Even so, I could still make out the flesh coloured lump on the floor and, the last time I checked, John wasn't three feet tall.

"Jay, what's wrong?"

This time I got a response – or at least, a sort of response. Not so much words; more of a low groan. In full-scale rescue mode, I fought my way through the steam, grabbed the towel and pulled open the door.

My brother was on his knees as the water drained away beneath him. From the look of the drag marks through the condensation on the wall, his legs had betrayed him.

"Okay, Jay," I said, draping the towel over his bony shoulders – thankfully it was long enough to protect his modesty. "Time to get back on your feet."

As I slipped my hands under his armpits and carefully extricated him from the clutches of the shower, he mumbled something incoherent.

"Sorry, Jay?" I asked as I placed him onto his feet and pulled the towel closed around him.

He opened his sightless eyes but kept his face downturned. It was hard to tell whether his cheeks were red from the heat of the water or his embarrassment about the situation.

"Pride…gone," he mumbled.

So, embarrassment it was, then. Glad I got that cleared up.

Slinging an arm around his shoulders, I guided him out of the bathroom. When we reached the bed, I deposited him onto it. I stepped back and took in the sight in front of me. He looked like something that had washed up on the beach, all bedraggled and tragic, with his milk-white shoulders poking out of the towel and his hair plastered to his face. All he needed was a bit of seaweed behind his ear to complete the look.

"Don't worry, John," I said, trying to cheer him up. "I didn't see anything I shouldn't have. What happened?"

His face still burned brightly. When he spoke, he sounded exhausted.

"My knees just…went," he said. "Before I knew it, I was scrabbling against the tiles like a drowning kitten or something. Dammit, I hate this! I feel pathetic."

"You're not pathetic," I said, shaking my head and scowling – not that he could see the gesture. "You're being held together by stitches and hope at the moment. Don't beat yourself up about it."

He brought a hand up to scrape the soaked hair from his face and allowed himself a curt laugh – although it was cut short by a gasp.

"Ribs?" I asked.

John nodded, his entire body stiffening.

"Yes, ribs," he said. Then he laughed again, but this time it had a tone I didn't much care for. It sounded…self-derisive. "I bet if you were in my position, you'd be out bench pressing one of the pods."

Broken head, arm, ribs, bruising and blind or not, I couldn't stop my irritation at him from escaping.

"Cut that out," I snapped.

And there it was. The look John had been hiding. The one that showed his true feelings. The one that showed he hadn't been kidding when he said he thought I didn't like him.

Feeling like a heel, I sighed.

"Sorry, Jay," I said. "I didn't meant to snap. It's just… I don't like hearing you put yourself down by comparing yourself to me."

John tugged the towel up over his right shoulder. It was his turn to sigh.

"I'm sorry. I'm way too emotional at the moment and I know I should stop talking but I can't."

The doctors had mentioned that mood swings could be a symptom of his head injury; they hadn't mentioned anything about truth-telling, though. Maybe the explosion _had_ managed to knock some sense into my brother's complicated head.

I sat down on the bed beside him and smiled.

"So, keep talking, Jay."

"I dunno, Virg," he said. "I dunno what else to say." Then a tiny smile crossed his face and he turned to me, his eyes not quite looking in the right direction. "What's with the nickname, anyway? You haven't called me 'Jay' in years."

My first instinct was to shrug and chalk it up to nothing. But the truth was, it hadn't reappeared through chance. It had been resurrected by circumstance.

"Do you remember when I first started calling you 'Jay'?" I asked.

John thought for a moment, his brow creasing with consideration.

"No, I can't say I do."

I rolled my eyes. The man may have had a brilliant mind but he had an appalling memory.

"We were in middle school," I prompted. I got a blank look in return. "Do you remember the sandwich incident?" Still nothing. I sighed. I really did need to spell it out. "The PB and J sandwich incident."

Realisation dawned slowly. I could see they play of memory over his face as his mouth drew into a silent 'o'. The PB and J incident. Wherein John ate nothing for lunch but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for so long that the other kids started to torment him. _PB and J! PB and J! Don't pick PB and J! He'll get the ball all sticky with his weird PB and J hands!_

"I knew they were making fun of you," I said, "so I sort of hijacked the nickname."

"Is _that_ why they stopped?" John asked.

I laughed; I couldn't help it.

"Well, it's not like you stopped eating PB and J sandwiches so they had to back off," I said. "They stopped because the nickname Jay caught on and became, I dunno, cool."

"I did not know that," John said, then blew at the tip of his nose when a droplet slipped down from his forehead.

"And, I guess I started using it recently because…" I stopped for a moment. This truth thing was catching on. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. "Because. Well, you can't have failed to notice that I've kind of been around a lot since you got out of hospital."

"It has been impossible _not_ to notice," John said. His expression filled in what he left unsaid. _It's been so irritating!_

I smiled and scuffed the toe of my boot on the floor.

"I've been doing it because I feel it's my duty to look out for you – for all of you guys, even Scott. And the last time I had to look out for _you_ specifically was the PB and J incident and the nickname just slipped out."

The level of sheer delight that danced across John's face at that remark made me take a mental note: _Remember to be nicer to the space dork in future!_

"Wow, Virg," he said. "That's awesome." The he stopped and cocked his head to one side, still not quite looking in my direction. "But you know what's _not_ awesome?"

My chest tightened.

"What?"

"The fact that we've had this entire conversation while I've been _naked – please get me some clothes._ "

My laugh was obnoxiously loud but I couldn't have cared less. I crossed to the forlorn looking dresser that had been half-destroyed by the unexpected topple it had taken. I fished out some underwear and threw it at his head.

"Hey!" he groused.

I turned back to the dresser as he grumbled something about privacy. I rummaged through the drawers again, looking for something that wasn't black, white or navy. _Jay, you need to learn to embrace colours. Sheesh_.

"Virg, can you get me my shirt?" he asked. "You know, the beige one with the gold on it?"

I resisted the urge to throw up. I don't claim to know a lot about fashion, but even _I_ know that particular shirt is an abomination.

"Y'know, I can't find it," I said as I plucked the horrific thing up, holding it at arm's length.

"That's weird," he said as I tossed the thing in the trash. "I don't know where it could be."

"Yeah, me neither," I said. There was no trace of guilt in my voice because I felt no remorse for disposing of that hideous thing. "I'll pick you out a t-shirt instead."

 _Preferably something that isn't plain – oh my God, YES._

Shoved at the back of one of the drawers was a t-shirt that hadn't seen the light of day since Christmas morning. It had that never-been-washed softness and was a royal purple fit for a king. But that wasn't even the best part of it.

John had hitched a pair of shorts up to his waist without standing– clearly in fear of falling down again – and smiled gratefully when I pressed the t-shirt into his hand.

"Thanks, Virg," he said as he slipped it over his head, the slogan spreading out across his chest.

"No problem, bro," I replied, grinning from ear to ear. I glanced at my watch; it was nearly dinnertime. "How about some food?" I asked. "If whatever Grandma's made is inedible, I can always made you a PB and J sandwich."

John reached out his left hand and grinned. I took it and pulled him to his feet, supporting his weight.

"I think it would have to be and PB and J _bagel_ now," he said.

I laughed anew.

"That can be arranged," I said.

And so we made our way down to the kitchen, John clinging to my arm like the wobbly, blind-guy space dork he is, wearing the present Gordon had got him for Christmas the year before.

What was the slogan on his t-shirt, you ask? It was priceless.

 _Astronomers do it in the dark_.


End file.
